Independent People by Halldor Laxness

IN these times it was no longer considered an act of ignominy and shame, comparable to seeking parish relief or being sent to jail and fit only for the scum of society, to go to America; nowadays it bore almost the same dignity as going on a pleasure cruise. Emigrants were no longer referred to as tramps and chronic loafers, or as bad goods gladly exported by the parish councils; no, they were men with money in their pockets and they were going overseas to see their relations and friends, who were high-minded people. Icelanders in America had all at once become high-minded people, as it had been reliably reported that they had lots of money; and it was considered rather praiseworthy to set out in search of these magnanimous plutocrats. Gvendur of Summerhouses, a youth who had never created any stir in Fjord on his previous visits, Gvendur of Summerhouses was in town with money in his pocket, a hundred crowns, a thousand, maybe more, and about to take ship across the Atlantic to see his relations, prosperous gentlefolk. He became immediately a highly respected figure in Fjord, while he waited for the coastal steamer, and the Sheriff gave him coffee when he called about his passport, and even the Sheriff's wife came to take a look at him because he was going to America. A person of great intelligence whom he had never set eyes on before hailed him on the street, invited him in, supplied him with more coffee, and taught him to say yess-monnee-ollright so that he could make a success of life in America. At the offices of the shipping company he was given an hour's lecture on how to comport himself in Reykjavik, whom to meet and what to say and where to pay his passage money, and somebody gave him a cigar to smoke and he was sick down on the beach. Lots of people stopped him on the street and asked him if he was the man. Yes, he was the man. Women appeared at the windows, lifted the curtains, and measured him from top to toe with romantic curiosity because they knew it was he. Children stood behind house corners and yelled after him: "America, America hey! " In this atmosphere of fame two days passed. He bought himself a knife and some cord to take with him to America, for nothing is so essential on a long journey. The ship was due early the following morning, and when he had finished all his preparations he still had the afternoon and evening before him. "I'd better go and see Asta Sollilja now," he thought. He found her at last in service with a boat-owner and his wife; with her was her child of five winters and a summer less, a little girl.

"I christened her Bjort," said Asta Sollilja. "I was so much of a child myself when I had her, it was all I could think of, it wasn't meant to please anybody in particular. She's big for her age and has plenty to eat now, poor kid, and she's cross-eyed like her mammy. " She kissed her. She was a tall young woman, long in the leg. She was broad, possibly too broad, over the hips, with shoulders that were slight in comparison, a back that was too round, and a bosom not so high as in the year when she was fifteen. Her eyes were silver-grey under their dark lashes, her complexion pale, and in her mouth the former lines of grace had given way to hardness. One of her front teeth was black with decay, her squint was more pronounced than before, possibly from fatigue, her hands long and heavy-boned, but pleasing in shape, her arms too thin, her neck still white and young, her voice cold and harsh, not bright. She had had her hair cut short and the fringe hung down into her eyes. There was something about her looks and her manner that was at once both strong and weak, attractive and repellent. One could not help taking notice of her; there was not a single feature that was dull in her face, not a moment of muteness in the glance of her eyes, not a movement of her limbs without vital personal expression, and the expression all in contrary sharps and flats, a debasement and a rehabilitation at one and the same time. Her life was one unremitting impassioned torment, so that one could not help wanting to be good to her; and then to push her away; and then to return to her again because one had not understood her-or oneself either, perhaps. Gvendur realized immediately that she was of superior stock, even though she stood there bowed in apprehension over the wet washing, clad in rags, clad perhaps in the shame of a whole nation, of a nation innocent for a thousand years, with a decayed tooth and an illegitimate child,-and marvelled at her in the same way as he and his brothers had always marvelled at her in the old days, when she had been their big sister at home. No, they were not related.